The Male Wobbly

Dear reader, today I'm discussing clothing.  This has come about due to two colouful events that occurred this week, or alternatively known male wobblies.

Now as background I have been playing an instagram game as an experiment.  The aim is to wear my clothes.  Don't get me wrong, it's not that I don't usually wear clothes.  No, I do wear clothes.  However I also buy clothes and at the same time think that I don't have any clothes, not even in the Marks & Spencer's bag that's proudly carried out of the shop bearing the latest cream chinos.  The instagram game sets challenges of a theme to wear on a  day by day basis.  The aim is to shop in your own wardrobe.  If played two or three challenges at once, as I have dabbled with,  you I become a delightfully unique tapestry of incordination (am I selling this to you yet?) As I told Kirb Appeal, I've even worn a maxi dress, from the back of my wardrobe, out, yes, out. In public. (Men, don't give up, we'll come onto you later.) 

On Thursday the challenge sent me to a local bar (that wasn't the challenge, I can manage that quite well. You would have perfected that too, dear reader, if you lived with Mr Him,) looking like what Mr Him called an Eton Mess, emphasis no doubt on Mess.  (Really he can talk as we've already established that he dresses like a fruit salad.) In case you haven't partaken Eton Mess is a dessert in the UK made from meringue, berries and cream.  I Instagrammed  my outfit tagging it Eton mess.  I can see what Mr Him means. There I am, top right, floating on top of a picture pool  of strawberries and cream.  

Now this week Mr Him has taken a week off work to do more flopping.  Those who know me will remember that flopping means vacation time to Mr Him but I have an entirely different definition.   Yesterday I came home to find he was so taken with my outfit he had flopped turned the whole  utility room into a darn Eton Mess!  I'm not sure that this is not a male wobbly and  his way of making sure I don't redefine his meaning of flopping ever again.  

As for men, the British man, Mr Him aside,  appears to love his blue shirt.  The blue shirt, be plain, striped or checked is attached to English male like his real ale, down his front. For instance here is a gaggle of specimens in a bar just this week.

 The predictability of the British male in his feathers of blue brings comfort to the offices and work environs, but every now and then one in the office will throw his own wobbly.